Lament: The name you know. The story you don't...

By Nicole Kelly

In June 1880, the reign of Australia's most famous bushrangers, the Kelly Gang, ended - guns blazing - in a fiery siege at the Glenrowan Inn. Ned Kelly survived, only to be hanged four months later. In this re-imagining of Australia's most notorious bushranger, Ned is given the chance to keep his band of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawkeye Publishing Pty Ltd
• Release date: Dec 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648366188

Nicole Kelly

By day, Nicole Kelly works as a primary school teacher, instilling a love of reading and writing in her small charges. The in between hours are filled with her own stories and writing. Nicole has short stories published in the anthologies, Close to Heaven and Just Alice. She lives in rural Victoria with her husband and two young children. Lament is her debut novel. Lament shortlisted in the Hawkeye Publishing Manuscript Development Prize 2020.

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REVIEWS

‘Lament is clever, wicked, action-packed, thought provoking and satisfying. This book took me on a journey packed with emotions and delightfully bittersweet moments where I couldn’t help but root for the success of Ned Kelly. If you want a story that connects you mind, body and soul then this is a definite read. And what have I learned by reviewing Lament as part of my final year university internship? – the wonderful experience of broadening knowledge by reading outside our usual genres. A whole new world awaits. An epic story that connects you mind, body and soul. Highly recommended,’ Catie Leigh.

‘It’s pure happenstance that author, Nicole Kelly, shares the same surname as Australia’s most enduring legend. However, it could reasonably be argued that 2020 Kelly has done a better job of getting inside the head of 1880 Kelly than so many others who have tried to capture the man whom we still – 140 years on – regard as our greatest rebel. Indeed, Lament is a better fit than Ned’s famous helmet,’ Greg Tobin.

'Nicole Kelly writes with such engaging olde world charm, you'll be immediately pulled into discovering the person Ned Kelly might have been. If you've ever wondered what might have happened if the Kelly gang lived on, this is the heartbreaking read for you,’ Bren MacDibble.

‘Deserving of a mini-series adaption! Nicole Kelly and Hawkeye have done Australian folk history proud, ‘Lament’ cleverly weaving fact and fiction together, staying true to history and vision, all while being respectful to those involved,’ Lawrey Goodrich.

‘The writing style is full of personality from the onset. The descriptions of the Australian outback are stunning, woven into the internal monologue of Ned’s thoughts and balancing out harsh criminal actions and turbulent character dynamics between Ned and the rest of his gang. Even though we stay exclusively in Ned’s head, we get a good sense of how each and every character feels when they make whatever choice they make. A very interesting novel,’ Nita Delgardo.

Lament

By NICOLE KELLY

DEDICATION

For my greatest creations, Jack and Elsie.

The Kelly Gang

(L-R: Ned Kelly, Joe Byrne, Dan Kelly & Steve Hart)

The Kelly Gang live today in Australian folklore, but before this, they were men. The gang was made up of Edward (Ned) Kelly, his younger brother, Dan Kelly, and their friends, Joe Byrne and Steve Hart. The Gang were wanted men from 1878 – 1880. They ran rampant through the north-east of Victoria—wanted for robbery and murder.

Ned Kelly was 25 at his death, and the eldest of the four. Joe Byrne was 23, Steve Hart 21 and Dan Kelly, only 19 years of age. One hundred and forty years since their deaths, they still capture the imagination of Australians, because things are never as simple as they seem.

I'm jolted. One way, then the next.

My back lays upon something hard, with not the slightest give in it. Unrelenting against flesh. It's uncomfortable, but I feel no pain.

What's pain anyway? Now, everything will always be this.

What I feel is not enough.

It isn't the jolting that's the worst. It's the sound that drones on and on around my head. I can’t tell if the constant noise is within, or a source outside my own broken mind. Coming from somewhere and pulling my mind to something that I can't quite reach out and grasp—not yet.

All I can remember is that I am me. I am Ned.

***

PART 1

THE CRASH

Saturday

I bang heavily on the door three times, and wait.

The moon is distant in the dark blanket overhead, signalling the early hours of the morning. The mare stands off to the side, reins dangling beneath her head, waiting patiently with Steve. She's a big, bay girl with a sure foot and gentle nature. The perfect companion for tonight, a lucky pick for me that I've borrowed from a property the other side of Wangaratta.

I knock again. The door is flimsy and could easily be pushed in, but that isn't the motive. I hear movement within and give two more sturdy bangs on the door; impatient. I need her to get a move on. There are things to be done. An answering voice, muffled within the walls of the Inn signals that she’s heard and is on her way.

‘About bleedin’ time,’ I growl to myself.

It's the first time my face has been seen in Glenrowan town in many months. I won't be expected. The door swings open and it takes her a few seconds to size up who’s standing in her doorway.

‘Jesus, Ned. You scarit the life outta me. I thought it were the coppers again.’

‘Annie Jones. How th’ hell are ye?’

Ann Jones looks relieved—an irony, considering who I am and where I stand. The proprietor of the Glenrowan Inn looks the worse for wear since I last laid eyes upon her. The death of her daughter the year before shows in every line on her face and the hard set of her mouth.

I wouldn’t call her a trusted ally. She's tried to keep everyone on side, the coppers included, and it means that she walks a tightrope. She’s friendly with the Hart family though, and knows my Ma and the kids. Right now, I have to take a gamble on even the slimmest of friendships.

The Glenrowan Inn, which she opened only 18 months ago, lies across the railway tracks from McDonnell's Railway Tavern, the main watering hole of the men who support us: our sympathisers. The tavern is where I’d normally show myself. But not tonight.

The Jones’ Inn is a neat little building of white-washed weatherboard and corrugated iron roof, with bark-slab kitchen sitting behind it. The verandah in front is made for standing under, catching up over an ale. It looks a damn good place to sit and watch for coming trains.

If I look out towards the station from where I stand, there’s a huddle of pitched tents amongst the sapling gums: housing for the railway labourers who work these tracks. The Jones' Inn isn't the obvious place for us to hole up with a pile of hostages while we wait for the police train. But it’s this unpredictability that makes it the right call.

Though she hasn't laid eyes on me for many months, Ann’s smile is quick after her initial shock. Her face breaks into a wide grin and her body relaxes. 

‘I'm no’ even in me decents, Ned.’ She turns to call into the blackness behind her. ‘Jane, get y’self dressed and come down ‘ere. Hurry up, girl, you don't know who you're keepin’ waiting.’

I ask how things have been, and about the coppers' visits. She tells me what I already know. They turn up on the doorstep regularly, despite the Gang not having shown our faces in the area for months. Mostly they hassle the Irish across at McDonells. Like me, many of the men on the land might be born or raised here, but there’s Tipperary green running through their veins. The coppers know who’s in our corner and they barge in, questioning and pushing them around. Ann’s clientele, despite her own Irish roots, are generally a quieter lot—townsfolk and railway workers.

The men in the tavern have had no more knowledge of our whereabouts than the coppers themselves these past months. But it hasn’t stopped them from being thrown into prisons, under the guise of the law. We take care of our own though. No loyal man’s family goes hungry when he’s shut away.

I swing my attention to the woman in front of me. At near 40 years old, no-one calls her Annie anymore. She likes my flattery and her face lights up, before turning to mock sternness.

‘You might no’ have seen me, but I've seen a few more of your mob in the last few weeks, Ned Kelly. They've suddenly taken a likin’ to my grog over ‘ere. There any reason for the change?’ She crosses her arms across her ample chest. ‘No’ that any trade is unwelcome.’ She’s a businesswoman through and through.

I give her nothing but a small shrug. ‘Jus’ keepin’ things interestin’, Annie.’

In truth, Kelly supporters have been drinking regularly and rowdily at the Glenrowan Inn over the past month—an attempt to throw the police off. I don’t want them suspicious of activity this side of the tracks. We’ve made sure to steal a few horses from the local area too—confuse the law about where we are and what we’ve been up to. 

‘Now, Ned Kelly, this’ll be no social call at this time of the night, no matter your blarney. So out wi’ it, what do ye want?’ The Irish accent is strong, despite her twenty years in the new colony.

Jane arrives next to her mother, bleary eyed. Half-dressed as they are, Jane is the more appealing sight of the two Jones women. Only a lass of fourteen, she's a pretty thing, which is no-doubt running through Ann Jones' mind. She’s canny. Her daughter is another business commodity at her disposal.

I’ve little time for thoughts of a pretty daughter. I’m at her doorstep for a reason. I tell her and Jane to hurry and dress warmly as they’re coming with me to wake some quarry workers. Ann looks at me hard. She nods, once, then leans against the door to size me up. She understands this visit isn’t any friendly get-together.

‘How long’ll we be away?’

I ignore the question and tell her to hurry. I reassure her that I'll leave her boys sleeping in the outbuilding of the Inn. They still sleep like the dead, despite my banging, and this settles her. She may have a head for business but her heart belongs to her children. The boys will be out of harms way and she has no fear for herself and Jane from the Kelly boys. Neither should she. I’m no killer or tormentor of innocents. No matter what the papers claim.

I wait in the shadows of the doorway as they dress. I’m hesitant to waste any more time than I have to when there’s still so much to come in the night. I shift my weight away from the roughness of the slab bark wall, uncomfortable and acutely aware of the steel armour under my oilskin coat. Steve is dressed the same—clothed in the plough mouldboards that we’ve stolen and bought from around the area. His seems to wear him though, slight as he is. They’re roughly fashioned but they’ll offer some protection for what’s coming.

Jane is out first, followed by her mother who makes an entrance in a flouncy red affair, which would have the eyes of every man in the colony of Victoria, no matter her age. I doubt she’s worn it in years, but it still fits and squashes her ample shape into something quite becoming. I raise my brows at her, my beard hiding the small grin.

‘Just found it lyin’ under the bed did ye, Annie?’

‘If bein’ woken in the middle of the damn night, by the most wanted man in the colony, to God-knows what end, isn't enough to don me finery, Ned, I don’ know what is.’

A low chuckle escapes me. She has a point. At any length, it will add to the night and the feeling of celebration, which lies in my heart.

Ann looks me up and down in the light of the candle that Jane holds in front of her young face. ‘I see it's true then,’ she nods at me. ‘I’d heard a whisper that ye were all outfittin’ yourselves with armour—somethin’ out of the crusades, ain't ye?’ She was mocking in her tone, but I hadn't missed her comment that 'she had heard'.

‘Where'd ye hear that?’ I bark the words and she stalls. I stand taller and lean in towards her, my arm braced against the doorway, blocking her exit. ‘Who’d ye hear it from, Annie?’

‘Christ, Ned. How’m I s’posed to remember where I've heard every piece of drunken gossip from?’ Her eyes dart from me to the floor but I refuse to move. I tower over the two women. She sighs. ‘Apparently Daniel Kennedy—the ol’ school teacher from Greta—he told someone, who told someone. You know how these tales spread.’

I nod at her and remain wordless, but I drop my arm to let her pass.

The news makes me considerably less at ease than I was just moments ago. If this is common knowledge, what else is? The body armour, fashioned in our bush forge on the banks of a creek that barely flowed, represents more than just fortification against the bullets of enemies—it is an emblem. Farmers are being denied land; now this tool of the land will help all of her sons loosen the oppression of the British. I had thought of our freedom with every strike of the iron as I moulded it into shape on that shady bank. Imbuing the steel with my strength of purpose. It must be unbreakable.

Now’s not the time for these thoughts. The women are ready and I lead them into the night, with Steve following not far behind.

***

The stationmaster's house is only a few minutes from the Jones' Inn. That’s where we’re headed. Along the way, I’ll collect some of the quarry workers who are tucked up in tents nearby. I need someone with a knowledge of getting up the train tracks efficiently, and the men camped out near the railway line fit the bill. I don’t expect their reaction to me to be as friendly as the Jones women.

Ann and Jane have their heads close together, whispering to each other in the dark ahead of us. They know every step of this town especially this close to their Inn, so the dark cover around us doesn't seem to worry them. In front of me, alongside Jane and Ann, Steve looks as if he could be another of her children. Even at 21, his chin has barely started sprouting any stubbly growth—something we've ribbed him about no end. But I know, despite his smooth-faced appearance, he's a man. Dealing with the violence that comes from being a hunted man will do that. He's resigned himself to the life better than Dan, who wastes his time wishing away the wanted posters. Despite Daniel being my blood kin, sometimes I barely recognise him.

Out of the dark, the clump of hessian tents appear abruptly, pegged haphazardly into the damp soil, just back from the small station building. I see no movement. The night is quiet with the snores, farts and moans that come with deep sleep. I wave Steve over to say as much when one of the moans becomes louder and more insistent. We look at each other with mirrored grins and raised brows. I wave my pistol in the direction of the tent furthest away from the track and take half a dozen steps towards it, listening. Another moan. I clear my throat loudly. ‘Me name is Ned Kelly and I’m tellin’ ye to come out o’ your tent, wit’ your hands in the air.’

The moaning and movement stops. I hear whispering before a voice breaks the night’s silence. In broken English it yells, ‘Piss off, ya mon-grel, Aussie bastards.’ Steve's face breaks into a smile and there is quiet laughter from the Jones women behind me. The tent flap stays closed and another deep groan and whispering starts up again.

My patience is thin. I yell louder and cock my pistol, aiming it just above the top of the tent. ‘I tell ye, I'm Ned Kelly, and I'm no bastard. Get out o’ the tent wit’ your hands in the air.’ I let off a shot, a warning of my seriousness, and reload. A woman screams from inside the tent and there is a flurry of movement before a head pokes out, arms stretched in front.

‘Okay, okay. Don’t shoot. I’se here.’ His accent is thick with fear and adrenaline. Movement starts from the nearby tents and there is a minute of confusion as people poke heads out or jump out into the open. I hear one cock his own pistol, which causes the women behind me to shriek. Steve and I are a twin image, pistols aimed straight at the tents, and I think again of the armour I wear.

‘Put down yer arms and no-one’ll come to harm. Raise ‘em and me mate, Steve, here’ll blow a hole through ye.’ The soft thud of guns hitting the dirt is followed by hands being raised. I tell Jane to collect them up, which she does without hesitation and drops them at my feet.

The romancer, standing there naked with his hands in the air, looks at me closely and I hear his intake of breath. ‘Figlio di puttana! It's bloody Ned Kelly.’

I wave my pistol back at his tent, ‘Get ye strides on lover-boy. I need ye.’

I let him get his pants on, which he does in a hurry, and then explain my need to remove a part of the track. The Italian understands, but shakes his head.

‘We have-a no tools Mr Ned. They is locked away and the boss has-a the keys.’ I'm pissed off and kick at the ground. It's an inconvenience that we don't bloody need, another waste of time. Plus Dan and Joe still aren't back. I won't feel at ease until I see them ride in together.

I leave Steve with the railway workers and Jane standing by the tents. Now that the initial fear has died away, there’s talk and laughter amongst the men, mostly at the expense of their foreman. I take Ann and head towards the stationmaster's house, to rouse him from his bed. He’ll need to find us the tools that we require. Unlike the tents, as we approach I hear nothing but the sounds of the night. The dark amplifies the animal calls and our feet scuffing on the gravelled road. The house is silent. Apparently my gunfire hasn’t disturbed them enough to force them from their beds. I rap my knuckles on the door, hard and fast. Not waiting for them to answer, I burst through and call out. My strides are long and it takes only a few before I find myself in the stationmaster’s bedroom. Stanistreet is out of bed in an instant, pulling on the pants that hang over the end of the bed. His wife in the bed beside him shrieks. Ann moves from behind me, sits on the bed to comfort her briefly, hushing her cries. Their almost-grown girls come flooding in at the noise and look taken aback, before Ann tells them to huddle in with their mother. Stanistreet dresses quickly and stands beside the bed

breathing heavily, watching me closely. I direct my words to his wife.

‘I mean ye no harm, missus. I need t’ talk wit’ ye husband. If ye tell me ye’ll do nothin’ that’ll risk yer husband’s safety, you and yer girls can stay put.’ Sheets pulled tight to her chin, her daughters in the bed next to her, she readily agrees.

Outside, the clouds clear, leaving the moon to light the town. The stationmaster seems unconcerned at me standing there, pistol in hand, once I’ve introduced myself and my need for his tools.

‘I can't do anything for you, Mr. Kelly. The workers’ll be no good to you, even with their tools. You need the plate layers. Reardon and Sullivan. They'll know what to do. They live just down this street. White house on the left.’ He points into the darkness of the street ahead.

Things are not going to plan. ‘Fuckin’ hell,’ escapes me, which makes Stanistreet look uncomfortable. Frustration bubbles under my every movement and I stand, hands on hips, staring down the Glenrowan street. This had better not be a sign of how the rest of this night will go. I look at Ann and see the shadow of a smile pass over her features, which deepens my irritation. She has no idea how important tonight is. But she soon will. 

I take a deep breath in, steadying the thoughts racing through my mind. ‘Right, you're both comin’ with me. Let's find the damn plate layers.’ The look I throw to Ann wipes the smile from her face.

The job, which should have taken thirty minutes at most, has already clocked up more than an hour, and we haven't even begun removing the track yet. The time passing isn’t my only worry. Where the hell are Dan and Joe?

***

Aaron will be dead by now. The thought flashes through my mind as I turn from Ann. The boys will have finished the job. I’ve never doubted they would.

I don't feel the weight of Aaron’s death on my shoulders like Joe will. Joe was almost his brother. I could never do to Joe, what he's done to Aaron this night—put a bullet through his skull. I've sent Joe and Dan to